


something that delight

by wokeupscully



Category: Pod Save America (RPF)
Genre: Dom/sub Undertones, M/M, PWP, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Tommy Has Top Secret Security Clearance, White House Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-27
Updated: 2018-04-27
Packaged: 2019-04-28 11:00:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14447874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wokeupscully/pseuds/wokeupscully
Summary: He's been under this desk for what feels like hours and it's possible, it's possible he's been here that long. He doesn't know what time it was when Tommy had turned to look at the computer, pulled his fingers out of him, and said, voice casual and face unreadable, “I have to go to a meeting in fifteen minutes.”Tommy had looked at him up and down, his gaze inspecting, piercing. Jon wasn't sure what he'd been looking for but a smirk had flirted at the corner of his mouth before falling back into the calm mask he wears whenever he needs to enter the Situation Room. “Wait here for me,” he’d said casually.





	something that delight

**Author's Note:**

> thanks to molly for the beta and the screaming
> 
> sorry for putting my kinks out on main, y'all. hopefully you like this too.
> 
> alright lmfao i forgot to put in a summary whoops - fixed that

Jon feels a slight cramp settling in from holding still for so long under the desk. He's too tall for this, has to have his neck bent down to lower his head, has his knees bent to his chest.

He's been under this desk for what feels like hours and it's possible, it's possible he's been here that long. He doesn't know what time it was when Tommy had turned to look at the computer, pulled his fingers out of him, and said, voice casual and face unreadable, “I have to go to a meeting in fifteen minutes.”

Tommy had looked at him up and down, his gaze inspecting, piercing. Jon wasn't sure what he'd been looking for but a smirk had flirted at the corner of his mouth before falling back into the calm mask he wears whenever he needs to enter the Situation Room. “Wait here for me,” he’d said casually.

Jon had laughed, sure that he was joking. That Tommy, the consummate professional, would not be suggesting that seriously. But when Tommy lifted one of his eyebrows at him, cool and unamused, Jon had swallowed and nodded, laughter fading. His eyes had shut to take a deep breath and Tommy's fingers danced gently across his face, a moment of tenderness before the next command came. “Just wait under the desk, I won’t be long.”

Neither of them are ever able to say how long Tommy will be in the Sit Room, Jon knows. Tommy might be another few hours, he might be back in a few minutes. Jon lost track of how long it's been a while ago, but he's still here, still naked, still so hard he's dripping.

The door isn't locked. Jon had listened for the click when Tommy had left and hadn't heard it. If Tommy left the room unlocked, he had meant to. He's too scrupulous for anything otherwise. He wanted Jon to be sitting here, worried that someone might walk in.

And he is. He is. Every time he hears footsteps, he thinks about the position he's in - naked, curled up under Tommy’s desk, hard as fucking nails. And he thinks about who is here, who might walk in and see him - Plouffe, or Dan, or Axe, or the President, fuck, fuck, god, _Obama_. His breathing goes shallow every time someone walks past, but he stays.

He stays because Tommy asked him too. Because Tommy wants to come back to him still under this desk, still hard and waiting for him. And every time Jon is seized with the impulse to give this up, to pull his clothes back on, he thinks of the hint of a smirk on Tommy’s lips, thinks about Tommy having a plan for him.

He waits.

He'd begged for this earlier, after all. Jon blushes thinking about it, thinking of how badly he'd needed him.

* * *

He'd been so close this morning, hovering right on the edge with three of Tommy's fingers deep inside him, his low voice in his ear telling him how open he was, how desperate, how pretty.  
  
All that had been interrupted by his work phone going off - on his one day off this month, and everyone knew that, so it must have been important - and all the message said was, "Come to The Oval, just in case Pres needs something written on demand." There were no other details but then Tommy's phone had gone off seconds later and Jon had looked hopefully, desperately at their nightstand, where his personal and work phone were charging.  
  
No such luck.  
  
Tommy pulls his third phone - his other work phone, encrypted to the max and filled with more security features than Jon could probably ever dream of - out from under his pillow. His fucking pillow, like he's the star in some CIA thriller piece.  
  
His face is inscrutable as he reads the message, though judging by the fact that he has to scroll, it contains significantly more detail than Jon's did. He can see the walls starting to rise behind Tommy's eyes and knows that there's no convincing him to finish this now.  
  
Tommy had come out of the first meeting of the day in the Situation Room with only a slightly grim expression, which Jon usually judged meant that whatever was happening in the world, Tommy had already been prepared for it, had already expected this outcome.  
  
So Jon had sat in Tommy's office in silence for a while, and thought maybe. Maybe. Maybe they had time. He bit his lip, asking, sure the desperation and raw desire were obvious in his voice, sure he sounded needy. "It'll barely be - it won't be a distraction at all, come on, Tommy, please."

He'd felt such a sweep of relief when Tommy had nodded, had spread his legs so that Favs could climb into his lap, kissing him. Every so often, Tommy would pull back, despite Jon’s whines and protests, to respond to a message he'd received. Amusement danced in Tommy’s eyes each time, seeing the frustration build inside of Jon and the sight of it had sent heat through him, even if he knew it meant that Tommy was playing a game, that Jon wasn't going to get to come as easily as he'd been hoping.

Still, Jon had let himself sink into it, into the intoxicating fever of kissing Tommy. A gasp tore out of him when Tommy had stood up suddenly, pinning his hips to the desk. They made out like that, Jon's hips trying to hitch forward involuntarily, never making any progress, only being trapped by Tommy's fingers pressing on the skin there. He might have bruises tomorrow, the thought of which made Jon's head spin.

When Tommy stepped away, Jon let out a whine he would have been ashamed by if he weren't so frantic with the need to have him close, to have Tommy covering every inch of him.

“I know, babe, I know,” Tommy had soothed him, but he still looked over to his computer, typing a few sentences at lightning speed before hitting send. Meeting Jon’s eye, he opened his second lowest drawer, pulling out a bottle of lube.

“You keep lube in your office?” Jon asked, voice incredulous.

“You say this as though you weren't the one begging me to fuck you just a few minutes ago, Favreau,” he teased, fingers dropping to Jon’s belt, pulling his slacks and his briefs off in one fell swoop. “How exactly did you think that was going to work if I didn't have anything?”

Jon hadn't though it through at all, actually. But Tommy had, apparently. Had thought about fucking Jon at work, here at the _White House_ , and decided it was so likely to happen that he went out and bought lube to put in his desk. His cock jumps at the thought of it and it doesn't escape Tommy's attention, his eyes tracking the movement.

“Turn around,” he said, “Bend over the desk.”

Jon did it, feeling exposed, face resting against the cool wood of the desk. He was still slightly open from earlier in the morning, when Tommy had taken forever prepping him, had driven him higher and higher and then been interrupted by whatever crisis is going on that Tommy could know about but Jon couldn't.

Two fingers slipped inside him with only a little stretch and Jon moaned, low and deep and satisfied.

Another message arrived at Tommy’s computer and he - fuck, he turned his body to read it, typing slower with his right hand than he would with his left, but looking for all the world like he's solely focused on whatever message he's crafting.

“You’re so good,” Tommy praised, fingers beginning to move as he types the final words of his email. “Waiting for me so patiently like this. You're not gonna be a distraction, right?”

“No, Tommy, just please,” Jon choked out, shifting his ass back shamelessly as he'd tried to chase the sensation of fullness, tried to fuck himself back on Tommy’s fingers.

Another finger slipped inside him and Jon let out a sigh of contentment but then - typing, fuck, Tommy was still fucking working. At least he was also moving his fingers and Jon marveled at that control while he railed against the frustration of not having Tommy's full attention, at not being able to come just from this.

The typing stopped and Jon had thought “finally, _finally_.” But then Tommy had to go.

* * *

 

Footsteps approach the room and Jon’s heart starts beating in overdrive again. But the cadence is familiar - purposeful yet hurried, coming down slightly harder on his left foot because of a knee injury playing lacrosse. It's Tommy.

This time when the door shuts, the lock clicks and Jon feels dizzy with what that means.

Practically, for work, it means that Obama won't be needing him after all, that whatever the issue was, it's over now. Tommy would never let himself be unreachable if there's even the possibility of being needed.

Personally, it means that he can finally have Tommy's attention, finally get fucked the way he's been needing all day.

Tommy's suit still looks pristine and Jon is a naked, trembling mess when he pulls him up by the shoulders, hauls him into a kiss. “You stayed,” he breathes, voice filled with awe, eyes wide. “You actually fucking stayed here, oh my god.”

He grabs the bottle of lube that he'd just left on the desktop when he'd gone to that meeting, turning Favs over, back into the position he'd been in like Tommy had never been away. He feels suddenly, wildly, like it's too easy.

He wants Tommy to be meaner, to take. The wonder he'd had in his eye when he saw that Jon had stayed, the gentle reverence that he's spreading him open with, three fingers deep, isn't - it isn't what Jon needs. He's been so tightly wound all day. Tender isn't going to be enough to settle him.

So Jon asks, "What was the meeting about?" voice breathless and raw with want. Tommy's fingers pause inside him, trying to process what this is.  
  
Jon doesn't want to know his NSC secrets, the country's secrets. He's admitted that over beers, that he'd much rather not know. He doesn't want to see the horror and the desperation and the terror and the limits of America's abilities. He'd much rather stay an optimist than know the truth.  
But he pushes back into Tommy's fingers where they've gone still in his body, and says, "Tell me."  
  
Tommy seems to catch on, grinding out, "No," in as cold and hard a tone as Jon has ever heard him use. His knees buckle slightly at it before he manages to lock them to keep him from falling, and pushes back up, back into Tommy's fingers.  
  
"Tell me," he says again, "tell me what happened."  
  
A blow rains down on his ass and Tommy's refusal is biting and Jon moans so loud he has to let go of the desk to bring one of his hands up to cover his mouth. The door may be locked, and this office may be soundproofed, but Jon doesn't want to risk being discovered like this. "You can tell me, Tommy, please."  
  
A snide chuckle leaves Tommy and when he says no again, punctuated by him adding another finger, Jon's cock jumps. "Is that what this is?" Tommy teases. "A prettyboy who can get everyone to bend to his whims, and all he wants is to be told no." He spanks him again and Jon nearly screams it's so good, ass clenching at the impact around the four fingers that have him stretched so wide.  
  
Of course Tommy understands this, understands him. Of course he does. "You can get entire rooms eating out of the palm of your hand, Favreau. You're very, very pretty." Each word drips condescension, and the heat in his gut burns brighter with it.  
  
One of Tommy's hands comes to rest around his throat, using it to pull him up closer to a standing position as Tommy slides inside him. The hand at his neck squeezes just a little and the hand that had been on his hip comes around to squeeze his ass, Tommy's hand digging into the muscle there. "You can throw this hot little ass at me all you want, Jon. The answer is no."  
  
The keening moan that leaves Jon at that is louder than anything so far and he takes the fingers that are wrapped around his throat and puts them in his mouth, just to muffle the noises he's making. The denials are so good because he knows they're real.  
  
Jon isn't oblivious, he knows that people tell him ‘yes’ perhaps more often than they should because he's charming, because he's competent, because he's attractive. Even Tommy, with a fond and indulgent grin, will usually give him what he's asking for - praise and attention and recognition. It's hot, knowing that when Tommy is saying no right now, in time with his thrusts, he means it.  
  
Jon can run up against this wall all day and Tommy will never change his answer, will never give in. Jon can beg and plead and whine he won't make a dent in Tommy’s resolve. It's hotter than Jon thought it would be, knowing that Tommy can hold this out of his reach indefinitely. That Tommy can and will take the things he knows to his grave and there isn't anything Jon can do that will change that. He's not sure why that thought is overwhelmingly arousing right in this moment, but he thinks it has something to do with control, with the discipline Tommy has. Whatever it is, it's really working for him.

There are tears in his eyes from how close he is, how good it is.  
  
This time when he begs, "Tommy, please," it isn't about the meeting, it isn't about the secrets, it isn't about the denial. He needs to fucking come.  
  
He wants Tommy's permission.  
  
"Yeah, babe," Tommy's voice is still so composed, despite what they're doing, "come for me, come on my cock, yeah."

Jon shudders, knees giving out under him as he screams his release, muffled around the fingers still in his mouth. Tommy pins his hips to the desk, keeping him still, holding his weight up when Jon can't do it himself, still fucking into him.

Now that he's not so far gone, that his mind isn't so clouded with want, little details start filtering in. The brush of fabric across the tender skin of the back of his thighs, the slight coolness of cufflinks against the hot skin of his back when Tommy shifts his grip on him.

He's still in his suit.

Jon is entirely naked, a complete mess, and Tommy hasn't even bothered to undress to fuck him. If he were still a teenager, Jon would be hard again just from thinking about it.

“Fuck, Tommy,” his voice is barely there, more of an exhale than anything. He's so sensitive and the drag of Tommy’scock inside him is verging on being too much. “You gotta - I need-” He stutters, rolling his hips back into his thrusts, hoping he'll understand.

“Jon, babe,” Tommy's voice finally wavers, his thrusts coming erratically now, chasing his release with abandon. Distantly, Jon can feel the slam of his hips against the desk, hopes that he’ll bruise, hopes that he’ll be able to have reminders of this on his body for days after. With a gasp right next to his ear that Jon swears is the most erotic thing he's ever heard in his life, Tommy comes, spilling inside him with a few more deep thrusts.

Jon whines when he slips out, from the stimulation and the loss, and Tommy cards his hand gently through the shorn hair there, nails scraping ever so gently over his scalp. “We can go home,” Tommy says, and Jon just nods, shutting his eyes and leaning into Tommy’s touch.

Fond amusement laces through Tommy's voice when he says, “Whenever you're ready, babe.”

* * *

 

Lovett comes over that night and they're all pretty much doing their own thing, but in each other's space. It's comfortable and easy and Jon looks between him and Tommy and can't picture being any happier than he is, listening to Lovett go off on tangents while watching Tommy take notes on a book that he's reading for fun.

“You know,” Lovett’s voice interrupts his reverie, more pointed than before, a new rant about to begin. “If not for the fact that this is a gay relationship, I’d tell you that you're being homophobic for staring at your boyfriend and not listening to my carefully prepared commentary about the abysmal state of the D.C. gay dating scene.”

Tommy looks up from his book at that, smiling softly at Jon, a knowing look in eye.

“Look at that! That's exactly what I’m talking about. You privileged gays, rubbing your beautiful relationship in the face of those of us who have slept with a Republican aide!”

Jon laughs and throws one of the pillows on this couch at Lovett and he ducks out of the way with a squawk of indignation, laughter in his eyes even as he winds up another rant about the bullying he receives.

“At least I have Tommy. Sweet, beautiful Tommy.” Jon laughs at the pink staining his cheeks, obvious even as Tommy pretends he's still reading the book in front of him. “If the world were ending, you'd save me, right? Unlike this bullying tyrant over here,” Lovett sticks his tongue out at Jon, “you love me. You'd tell me.”

Tommy's voice is dry but amused when he says, looking up from his book only for quick second to meet Jon’s eye, “No, I wouldn’t.”

**Author's Note:**

> find me screaming about all this @ tvietor08 on tumblr


End file.
